Chapter 7
Skyla
I’ll admit, it’s taking more than a minute or two for the strange sensation of being in my younger body to subside.
Being seventeen again feels like wearing skinny jeans after Thanksgiving dinner.
Technically, I fit, but everything is compressed in places that shouldn’t be compressed.
My adult brain needs a minute to stop panicking as my surroundings snap into sharper focus.
The piano clatter has dissipated, given way to bass-heavy music thumps against my ribcage like a felon trying to burst its way in, while sweaty teenage bodies sway in the dimly lit space of Emily Morgan’s haunted house.
Rock music drifts from somewhere deeper in the heart of this dragon-approved dwelling, competing with laughter and riotous, heavily slurred conversations.
The air is ripe with the usual suspects, beer, enough sugary perfume to outfit a legion of teenage girls, and the unmistakable earthy scent of weed that no amount of anything can hide from parental detection.
I look over at Logan, whose eyes are still wide with the shock of our celestial body-snatching. His fingers flex back and forth as if he were experimenting to see if this younger vessel of his is willing to respond to his adult commands.
“This is so freaking bizarre,” I whisper, leaning in close.
“I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, except the clothes are me.
And honestly, I feel six sizes too small.
I hope I don’t get blisters where blisters shouldn’t be.
” Although, judging by the baby blue FM’s I’ve pressed my feet into, blisters are more or less guaranteed.
Oh, who cares. These stilts might be a killer, but they are stinking cute. I wish I never donated them.
Logan gives a short-lived laugh before scanning the room with this newfound teenage perspective. “We need to figure out what she’s up to, Skyla. What are we supposed to do here besides secure the anchor?”
“Play along, I guess. She did say have a little fun.” I try to orient myself to the timeline as I watch our peers in their far younger bodies and try to remember what exactly went down in this chapter in my life.
Nothing good, I’m sure of it. “Okay, so, we’re already aware of the fact that this is Chloe’s welcome home party, after I’d just found out I was trading kisses with the enemy—that would be you.
I’m pretty sure I should be furious with you right about—”
“Dude, there you are!” A young, very handsome, very stoned Ellis Harrison materializes beside us, his hair tousled and his eyes glowing an eerie wash of pink in the strangled lighting. “Messenger.” He nods my way. “What’s up with you and Gage?”
I blink, trying to remember how I may have answered Ellis in the original version of this night. Honestly, it sort of feels like trying to recall the details of a movie I watched a decade ago and maybe fell asleep in the middle of.
“Nothing’s wrong with Gage,” I answer without thinking. “We’re perfectly fine.”
And where the hell is future Gage when I need him? No offense to Logan, but Gage actually thinks before jumping into my mother’s traps.
And Logan? He cannonballs right in and asks questions while drowning. Case in point. I take a moment to frown at him because of it.
Ellis’ brows furrow as he takes me in. “Dude, did you hear me? Something is up because she’s all over him.”
“She?” I blink his way once again, mystified where this might be going. Then it hits me.
Chloe. Of course. In this timeline, she’s making her play for Gage, convinced he’s rightfully hers like a gift sent from heaven itself—with her name on his baseball bat no less.
I remember the anger that surged through me that night, the jealousy that burned like acid.
And to be honest, it’s sort of happening again right now just thinking about it.
Only Chloe Bishop could elicit a rabid response like that from me and maybe drive me to murder.
Hey? Now that I’m back, maybe I can commit a little homicide?
Right a few celestial wrongs, and land myself horizontal with my husband far sooner than expected.
Although which husband? To sleep with Logan or to sleep with Gage?
Now that is the question. Hand to heaven, it’s sort of always been the question.
I wince because I’m so teasing. I think.
“Oh, hell, where are they?” I ask, because it sounds like Chloe Bishop just bumped herself back up on my to-do list.
Ellis takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. Bodies are everywhere, pressed together in one sweaty, drunk mass of teenage hormones. They’re all yelling and grinding and have no clue that two time travelers just crashed their party.
But it’s not like we don’t belong here. I mean, technically, we were here to begin with. It’s just that we’re the new and improved versions with nothing to prove and nothing to lose.
Something churns in my gut with the thought of having nothing to lose. It doesn’t seem true. It never does.
Nevertheless, we’re here now and we know things.
Come to think of it, Logan and I can totally open up shop if we wanted to and hold some sort of a fortune-telling session, predicting with one hundred percent accuracy what’s about to happen to each and every one of these poor souls.
Heck, we could give a few stock tips and make a few millionaires while we’re at it, too. But we’re not that nice.
Logan follows close behind, sighing a lot and grunting, and every now and again, he groans hard. I won’t lie. It’s eliciting more than a few naughty thoughts in me.
Anyway, now that we’re here this time, I know exactly what’s happening and why he was keeping secrets from me. I didn’t get it all at the time. Misunderstandings were running almost as high as Ellis himself. And wow, the bitter resentment I felt toward Logan that night seems almost laughable now.
But I’ve got to respect teenage Skyla’s commitment to being pissed. The girl nearly destroyed the universe over boy drama. A laugh escapes me, because honestly? Iconic.
We reach the covered patio, and there they are—Gage looking stern as though he’s giving Chloe a message he doesn’t think for a minute she’s capable of receiving.
Most likely because it’s a rejection. Chloe sloshes around him with one hand holding up the requisite red Solo cup and the other riding up and down his chest like a serpent.
I’ll admit, Gage does look good. I wouldn’t mind a little serpentine action with my favorite Levatio right about now either.
I gasp hard at the thought and glance at Logan. What am I saying? It’s almost as if jumping into this body has landed me right back in my indecisive state between the two Olivers.
Darn hormones. I swear I was given a double helping on the day they were doling those out. And really, I wouldn’t put it past my mother—or Marshall, come to think of it—to make sure that happened.
And to add insult to injury, Chloe Bishop is feeling up my boyfriend with my freaking hand.
I think back on that whole Skyla/Chloe arm switcheroo and shudder before pushing it right back out of my mind.
Suffice it to say, Chloe and I shared a lot of things, clothes, bedrooms, body parts, boyfriends—heck, we even tongued one another once on the field at West. Of course, it was because I was trying to fish that damned pendant out of her mouth, but I digress.
Scratch that. We never shared clothes.
“Wait,” Logan says, gripping my shoulder just as I’m about to bolt in their direction. “Gage said he had a very good reason for going along with this. I swear to you, Skyla, he would never do anything to hurt you.”
I turn to face him, struck by how young he looks, how young we all look, and yet how ancient his eyes seem. The Logan who lived this moment the first time didn’t know what we know now. He didn’t understand what was coming.
“Okay,” I say softly.
Something shifts in his expression, surprise mixed with relief.
This isn’t how the scene played out originally.
Past Skyla was too angry, too hurt to trust him.
I would have slapped him ten times by now easily, and yet all I want to do is pull him in the corner and have my way with him.
And sadly, for a moment, I’m not sure if I’m talking about Logan or Gage. Okay, fine. It’s Logan.
Heck, I wouldn’t care if everyone from East and West watched as well—that’s how hard these feverish hormones have me spiraling. Plus, Logan Oliver is hot no matter what point in time we’re visiting.
A movement behind Logan catches my eye. It’s Michelle Miller, looking disoriented and unwell, her hair chopped into uneven chunks as if attacked by a weed whacker wielded by a vengeful toddler.
She’s pecking at something on the floor, jutting her neck out in odd thrusts like she’s jonesing for the good stuff.
It takes a moment for me to register what’s happening, and I gasp hard as I take a step in her psychotic direction.
Michelle moves in a slow circle, mumbling into thin air to anyone who happens to pass by while sporting the world’s most horrific home haircut.
Choppy and jagged on every side, cut way up high by her ears.
Oddly, it’s the exact same haircut I gave to every single one of my dolls growing up, but I digress.
Michelle is no doll; she’s a witch, or at least she was a witch to me back in the day.
Even so, I don’t like seeing her this way.
Completely and utterly out of her freaking mind.
And why is she this way? I try to rack my brain for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for the details to fall into place.
The rose! That horrible haunted rose Marshall gifted to her after treating Michelle like his personal playground. He’s such a horrible playboy, with a horrible sense of celestial humor to match. Because nothing says romance like a demon flower.
The pendant hanging around her neck, a blackened rose on a glittery chain, pulses with malevolent energy—and just like that, it all comes back to me.